


Perhaps

by UrbanAmazon



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Mourning, Pre-Slash, Team Single Dads, Widowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanAmazon/pseuds/UrbanAmazon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil finds Bard in a quiet moment after the Battle of the Five Armies, and the seeds of a deeper understanding take root in their friendship.  (Also known as two single dads deal with some repressed emotions after facing mortality.  Could be seen as pre-slash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps

There was a silence in the aftermath of war; a stillness strange and unnerving not like any other kind of quiet in all the years Thranduil had known. The breath he drew into his lungs tasted gray and distant, and the steel of his armour weighed heavy on his shoulders, as if it were fit for someone else. As an elf, he did not feel weariness, and he did not bear even a single wound, but in that silence, Thranduil felt suddenly so very aware of every one of his bones, and every lethal swing he’d made with his twin blades. 

There was blood at his feet, dark in the muddy gray of the snow trampled flat. The black foulness of orc and troll blood twisted with human, dwarven, and elvish red down Dale’s ruined stones. Already the surviving elvish soldiers had begun to retrieve the bodies of their fallen kin. As Thranduil made his way down the slick and crumbling path from Ravenhill, he adjusted his earlier tally of losses – two more faces he might never see again.

Unseen by any other soul, his hand tightened around his sword, the leather creaking in the cold. Perhaps, if he had not turned away so many years ago… perhaps the certain losses then would have prevented the losses of the present… but it was only ever that: perhaps. It was not a king’s place to court regret.

At least, not an _Elven_ king’s place. Thranduil had offered his help, and had even allowed attempts at fair parley to reclaim what elvish belongings had been long lost to Smaug’s hoard. Dwarvish ambition and dwarvish pride had fanned the embers of this disaster, and Thranduil’s heart held no softness for their downfall. The line of Durin would be buried in the heart of that mountain they coveted so, shrouded by the glow of their _gold_ , and Thorin’s companions would forever weigh the prize of their home against that loss. Thranduil would leave them to it.

His boots made no sound as he walked that thin path, and the rolling mists of evening kept the calls of the carrion birds in the valley from reaching Thranduil’s ear, so the Elvenking paused when a completely unexpected noise whispered in through the silence. His blades cleared an inch of scabbard before recognition dawned: it was not the hiss of a lingering orc or goblin, but the soft, hitching breaths of tears. 

For an unbidden moment, Thranduil thought again of Tauriel, her proud shoulders bent with the newfound curse and pain that was mourning, cruel as a snapped greenstick tree, but it was not her. The breathing was deeper, and with the slightest of echoes from hiding behind clasped hands. 

No doubt there were many tasks awaiting his attention in the heart of Dale, in the remnants of his camp. His soldiers and scouts would confirm to him the orcish retreat, the tally of the hale, the wounded, and the supplies for both. There would be the need to resume contact with the dwarves, however many of them yet lived. He also needed to speak with the wizard, possibly to exchange choice words regarding last-minute battle plans not shared with allies—

Thranduil let his swords hang at rest and turned down a thin street just within the walls of Dale, following a single set of footprints to a ruined sentry’s alcove. He stepped softly, leaving no mark on the snow and making no sound to betray his curiosity. It was one of the human folk, no doubt. The dwarves would not mourn alone, and the elves would, typically, not weep at all. The humans were stretched thin and unfamiliar with battle and its unique horrors. If anything, it would be a wounded fighter, and Thranduil could at least confirm enough to direct their brethren to assist. 

Whatever assumptions Thranduil had earned the right to carry in all his centuries of living, he did not expect to find Bard in that little alcove, sat alone on a cold stone bench. The man’s sword lay discarded at his feet, the blood on its blade glinting with ice and clot. He sat with his shoulders bowed and his face in his hands, shaking with wet and gulping breaths. 

Thranduil watched, undetected. Bard’s clothes and thin leather armor were scratched and torn, his knuckles scuffed and bruised, but he did not appear to be wounded too seriously. He did not moan or cry out, nor did he tear at his hair in anger, or even rock in place as if possessed with grief. Thranduil was struck, suddenly, by the thought of a wounded stag in the depths of his forest; hiding in the heart of the deepest thicket, and even then never daring to make the slightest sound of weakness, lest a wolf or challenging stag take advantage. The survivors of Laketown were vulnerable and surrounded by seasoned warriors, both elf and dwarf. Bard knew enough of rule that he must appear strong – that much, Thranduil had seen firsthand in the ferocity of his desperate warfare in Dale… but Bard was still only human. It was in their nature to _feel_ , even though it was not the luxury of a king to show it, and Thranduil saw the lines of Girion in Bard’s face. He might bristle every time his name was lauded, but Bard would be a king. 

So. If that was true for this situation, what role did Thranduil represent? The wolf, or the challenging stag? 

Or none at all?

In his hesitation, Thranduil had lingered too long. A shift in the evening wind whistled cold air down the thin street at his back, and Thranduil’s long hair and cloak flicked forward enough to catch Bard’s battle-raw attention. He looked up quickly, revealing reddened eyes and a blood-smeared face cut clean with lashes of tears. “Lord Thranduil,” he rasped, voice dry and exhausted. Bard did not stand, but he straightened where he sat. His brow creased with sudden worry.

Thranduil lifted his hand. “I bear no message. The battle is done.”

Bard nodded, shoulders sagging. “Thank you.” He sniffed and leaned his head back against the old stone wall, and closed his aching eyes. “I am sorry for your kin’s losses,” he offered, though his breath still caught softly and fresh tears streaked down his face.

Strange. It was not an expected sentiment, but Thranduil inclined his head to accept it. He frowned as he continued to watch Bard’s shoulders shake. The man made no attempt to hide his emotions from the Elvenking. He did not cover his face again, or even make any attempt to stand. “Do you weep for them?”

Bard smiled, but even that appeared deeply sad. “Yes. And no.”

“Is it for the loss of your own?” The people of Laketown, already battered and homeless, had sustained heavy losses. Desperation and dusty weapons could only carry them so far, even though Thranduil had heard whispers and seen glimpses of miraculous feats in the heat of battle. The tale of a black arrow fired over the shoulder of a young boy to kill a dragon… there would be songs of that one for generations. “Your son--”

Bard’s hands clenched tightly, and the apple of his throat jumped as his breath sucked in between his teeth. “Thanks to all that is blessed, no. He is well. And my daughters, they are safe.” 

“That is fortunate.” An understatement, and Thranduil knew Bard knew it. Dale was so battered, and so overrun, luck had played such a part in any of them surviving; it was a boon not equally distributed. Even Thranduil could not deny the soothing balm of relief in his chest when Legolas had shown himself hale and whole. 

Still, Bard would not have hidden away to shed tears of joy. Thranduil frowned and looked out the alcove’s thin windows. The setting sun gleamed dull gold through the mists, and the sky darkened purple and blue beyond. Already shadows were hiding the thick black of spilled blood, and the crisp winter air tempered the metal and smoke. Silence, still. 

The quiet rankled Thranduil, crawled at his nerves with the threat of dread. Forests were never truly silent, and it was calmer to recognize the creak of a sun-warmed tree or the rustle of a spider’s foot for what they were. Silence held everything, and revealed nothing. All the better for Thranduil to leave this place and return to his home. 

Yet he did not turn away. “And yourself?” He asked it only to break the quiet, surely. 

“What?” Bard squinted at the Elvenking, as if he’d misheard the question.

“The battle is won, Bard of Laketown. You have survived, and those dearest to you. You should be with them.”

“Do you forget that men _know_ we are mortal, Lord Thranduil?” Bard asked, each word falling with soft agony. “Do elves truly not know fear?”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. His posture tightened in his spine, and hidden scars made their old aches known as his jaw clenched. He’d come as a courtesy, investigated a sound in silence as a matter of kindness. Even spoken in private and between allies, careless words were not welcome to a king’s ears and ignorance was no light accusation to make of any elf. 

“You are a father, Lord Thranduil.” Not a question, but a statement. The Elvenking looked back to find Bard’s pained eyes on him once more, and that sad smile. “I heard the other elves speak of your son, but I would have known it just to look on you.”

Thranduil’s flare of anger faded like mist in the dawn.

“I have never been more proud of my children,” Bard rasped. He shook his head, awestruck to the idea of it, but his lips trembled. “But… for _this_ to be the arena for it? They have known hardship enough. I would that my children have been spared all of this. To never hear orc horns, or see a dragon’s shadow. Even now, I… I pray that I do not lose them to whatever memories they may keep. I’ve wrapped skinned knees, and I’ve mended broken toys, and I’ve done all I know to do. But if they become afraid to look through a window, to sing, or to smile… the Dale may call me king until they are hoarse, but if I lose _their_ light, I’ll--” The rush of words ended in a choke, and Bard pressed his lips together to stifle the sound. He looked down at his hands. He rubbed at an old mark around one finger, a smooth line like a scar in the shape of a ring. 

Like a shadow changing under the path of the arcing sun, Thranduil remembered the three children holding tightly at their father’s arms, but no mother. He remembered the way Bard stood straighter, spoke louder in their presence. And then, Thranduil did not see Bard as a wounded stag; he saw not a king staying strong for his people, but a father grown accustomed to staying strong for his children, alone. He heard the silent tears of a man wishing for his children to be spared the burden of his grief, praying they might sleep soundly when he could not.

Alone.

In war, it was all too easy to relearn one’s fragilities, one’s limits, and to see one’s end glitter a promise on every arrowhead, along every blade… but those were promises, and the silence of the aftermath was all unknown. All _perhaps_. 

Thranduil felt a pang in his heart, as clear and sharp as Legolas’ eyes turning away from him and to the north, to the Dunedain, as bade.

(blue eyes, like those of his mother, and the shapes of her profile hiding in his face… long lost, long gone--)

The pang became a twisting knife, and the silence in the air pressed at his skin as if it could smother his breath. 

The snow did not crunch under his feet as Thranduil stepped forward. The weight of his fingertips rested on Bard’s shoulder, no more and no less than a feather. Bard’s hand, with his knitted gloves in filthy tatters at the knuckles, clasped at Thranduil’s fingers without looking, like a drowning man finding a hold.

“I too have known this fear,” Thranduil offered softly. “And I have known loss as yours. Long ago… and yet not so long at all, sometimes. Forgive me, my friend.”

A weak laugh choked its way from Bard’s chest. He held slightly tighter to Thranduil’s hand, hard enough for the elf to feel the lines of bow-string calluses. “Are we now? Friends, not allies?”

Thranduil’s mouth curled in the faintest of smiles. “Perhaps.”

In the valley, a hawk cried clear and piercing through the mist and the coming night. Fearlessly, a thrush answered back, and like that, the silence was broken. The clatter of wagons and the shuffle of weary feet thrummed faintly through Dale’s stones, and the scent of fire promised meals and warmth instead of ashes. 

“Aye,” Bard decided. His voice was stronger now. “Perhaps.”


End file.
